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DRY      POINTS 

1887-1920 

BY 

HENRY  MARTYN  HOYT 


J 


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DRY  POINTS 


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HENRY  MARTYN  HOYT 
Self  Portrait 


DRY  POINTS 

STUDIES  IN 
BLACK  AND  WHITE 


BY 

HENRY  MARTYN  HOYT 

1887—1920 

WITH  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  BY 

WILLIAMTCDSETBENrtT 


NEW  YORK 

FRANK  SHAY 

1921 


h\ 


<<«.« 


Copyright,  1921,  by 
FRANK  SHAY 


LIST  OF  CONTENTS. 

Early  Poems  (1908-1911) 

The  Land  of  Dreams,  23 

Rome,    Sunset,  21 

John  Keats,  25 

The  Pawn  Shop,  26 

Before  a  Portrait  of  Rembrandt,  27 

The  Fishers,  28 

The  Spell,  31 

The  Wee  Mannie,  33 

The  Tower   Casement,  36 

Poems  Written  During  1920 
Dedicatory,  39 
Nomad,  40 
Coliseum,  41 

On  the  Fly-Leaf  of  ''Renascence,"  42 
1917-1919,  43 
Hyperion  to  a  Satyr,  44 

The  Master  of  The  World 

A  Comedv  in  One  Act,  51 


459353 


"HENRY" 

Thirteen  years  ago  this  summer  there  were 
three  of  us  on  a  hillside  in  Northern  California, 
one  sitting  on  a  campstool  with  a  field  easel  and 
color-box  before  him,  one  sprawled  out  beside 
the  painter,  his  eves  shaded  by  a  very  old  hat, — 
the  third,  some  twelve  years  younger  than  the 
two  recent  Yale  graduates,  a  small  boy  in 
knickerbockers,  watching  through  goblinlike 
glasses  the  antics  of  a  curly  brown  dog  who  ran 
and  yelped,  chasing  red-winged  blackbirds 
through  sunflecked  ripples  of  silvery  wild-oats 
on  the  slope  below. 

In  the  compan}^  of  myself  and  my  brother, 
"Henry"  was  quietly  painting,  his  very  thick, 
black  eyebrows  drawn  together  with  concentra- 
tion, his  very  white  teeth  gleaming  in  a  sudden 
smile  as  we  exchanged  serious  theories  mixed 
with  badinage.  He  was  full  of  oddly  apposite 
quotations  from  many  well-loved  books.  One  of 
'[   7   ] 


his  favorite  brightly-colored  bow-ties  showed 
like  a  large  butterfly  at  the  throat  of  his 
painter's  smock.  His  fine  erect  head  with  its 
dark  hair,  his  vivid  coloring,  made  an  arresting 
"composition."  Extraordinarily  sympathetic 
hazel  eyes  he  had,  that  flashed  with  pleasure  in 
beauty,  sparkled  with  amusement,  roved  from 
mine  to  the  tableau  of  Stephen  watching 
"Prince" — back  to  his  canvas — out  again  to  the 
landscape.  He  talked  animatedly.  His  fund 
of  literary  reference  and  typically  Henryesque 
catchwords  seemed  inexhaustible. 

That  is  the  first  picture  that  comes  into  my 
mind,  a  snapshot  of  one  morning  in  a  particu- 
larly golden  summer,  when  Youth  possessed  all 
the  ages,  when  Time  moved  slowly  and  majesti- 
cally over  us  with  the  tranced  beauty  of  a  sum- 
mer cloud. 

"Henry" — his  full  name  was  Henry  Martyn 
Hoyt — was  born  at  Rosemont,  Pennsylvania,  in 
1887,  the  son  of  Henry  Martyn  Hoyt,  Jr.,  and 
Anne  McMichael,  his  wife.  He  was  of  Colonial 
American  stock  on  both  sides.  English  on  his 
father's,  Scotch-Irish  and  French  on  his 
mother's.  His  paternal  grandfather  was  Gov- 
ernor of  Pennsylvania  and  his  maternal  great- 
grandfather an  earlv  Mavor  of  Philadelphia. 
'[    8    ]' 


His  father  was  Solicitor-General  of  the  United 
States,  under  President  Roosevelt.  From  both 
parents  he  inherited  high  integrity,  intelligence, 
wit  and  imagination.  He  and  I  first  met  at 
college  on  both  being  elected  to  the  editorial 
board  of  the  Yale  Record.  He  drew  pictures 
and  made  verse.     I  also  made  verse. 

We  enjoyed  many  glorious  evenings.  And  we 
were  always  talking  Keats,  Kipling  or  Brown- 
ing. It  was  to  Henry  that  I  owed  my  persever- 
ance into  the  intricacies  of  Browning,  having 
been  bothered  by  Robert's  "obscurity"  before 
that.  We  sat  up  late  reciting  favorite  poetry 
and  discussing  all  the  people  we  didn't  like.  We 
sat  up  late  questioning  the  universe  and  plan- 
ning great  futures.  We  were  together  as  much 
as  possible,  with  one  member  of  the  firm  in 
"Academic"  and  the  other  way  down  College 
Street  in  the  fastnesses  of  Sheif.  We  liked 
each  other  on  sight  and  continued  to  like  each 
other.  We  strove  occasionally,  in  fantastic 
ways,  to  annoy  others. 

His  complete  independence  of  attitude  and 
the  individuality  with  which  he  did  or  said  any- 
thing marked  him  out  immediately  from  among 
all  the  other  men  I  knew.  He  observed  the  life 
around  him  keenlv.  His  comments  were  usually 
[   9   ] 


unexpected  and  always  pungent.  He  loved  his 
own  group  of  friends  and  enjoyed  their  society. 
He  was  always  witty  and  instinctively  on  the 
side  of  the  underdog. 

But  under  all  his  nonsense  and  enjoyment  of 
the  hour  you  felt  a  constructive^,  logical  mind  at 
work;  almost  austere  in  its  desire  for  the  truth 
about  things.  No  one  could  fool  Henry  or  put 
him  off  with  an  insufficient  explanation.  Neither 
could  he  be  "talked  down."  Younger  than  most 
of  the  men  in  his  class^  his  mind  was  far  more 
alive,  alert,  restless  and  questioning  than  the 
average.  And  he  was  always  ready  to  express 
himself  with  biting  vehemence  where  sham  was 
detected. 

Yet  I  think  he  was  one  of  the  most  funda- 
mentally friendly,  kind  and  guileless  men  I  have 
ever  known.  His  heart  responded  instantly  to 
any  genuine  appeal.  By  converse  it  never  re- 
sponded to  merely  bogus  sentimentality,  which 
he  hated  and  ridiculed. 

College  life  usually  casts  men  in  a  mould  from 
which  they  never  wholly  escape.  No  one  en- 
joyed more  keenly  the  academic  environment  on 
its  aesthetic  side  than  Henry.  But  nothing 
could  ever  have  cast  him  in  a  mould.  He  was 
sui  generis  from  the  start — and  to  the  end. 
[    10   ] 


He  had  a  very  high  quality  of  spiritual 
courage.  His  presence  was  engaging.  And 
steadily  there  grew  within  him  the  desire  for 
genuinely  artistic  expression.  He  graduated 
from  Yale  one  month  after  his  twentieth  birth- 
day^ and  a  first  compromise  between  the  study 
of  the  law  and  his  own  wish  to  paint  sent  him 
to  the  Harvard  Architectural  School  in  Boston 
the  next  fall^  after  a  summer  spent  abroad. 

The  following  summer  (1908)  he  came  out  to 
visit  me  and  my  family  in  California.  I  was 
then  endeavoring  to  make  a  start  at  independent 
writing.  During  the  summer  Henry  and  I 
wrote  and  criticized  poetry  together.  Some  of 
his  earliest  poems  were  written  at  the  big  study- 
table  we  both  remembered  so  well  for  years 
afterward,  in  a  large  French-windowed  room  in 
the  Commanding  Officer's  quarters  at  Benicia 
Arsenal.  When  he  returned  to  the  East  we 
kept  up  a  lavish  correspondence  for  a  year  or 
more,  its  paper  and  envelopes  fantastically 
decorated  with  drawings  in  colored  inks.  Of 
course  his  own  drawings  were  joys  forever,  and 
far  superior  to  my  own  in  technique.  I  remem- 
ber one  in  which  we  were  depicted  as  pouring 
oil  upon  the  Hudson  River,  and  applying  the 
torch.     We  had  the  dream  then  of  living  to- 

[  n  ] 


gether  in  "a  garret  aloof"  in  New  York  and 
working  out  highly  artistic — and  incidentally 
penniless — Bohemian  destinies.  But  when  I 
finally  did  come  East,  Henry  was  studying  art 
at  the  Boston  Museum,  under  Tarbell  and 
Benson  and  Philip  Hale.  He  paid  several  visits, 
however,  to  New  York,  to  foregather  with  my- 
self and  Sinclair  Lewis,  rooming  together  then 
down  in  Greenwich  Village. 

Henry  travelled  abroad  again  in  France,  Ger- 
many and  Italy.  In  his  twenty-fifth  year  he 
married  Alice  Gordon  Parker.  His  wife  was 
also  an  artist.  As  I  myself  married  in  the  fol- 
lowing year  and  became  a  Long  Island  com- 
muter, Henry  and  I  necessarily  saw  much  less 
of  each  other  than  formerly. 

He  had  gone  to  Spain  on  his  wedding-trip 
and  often  afterward  maintained  that  Spain  was 
the  country  of  the  world  to  live  in. 

Meanwhile  his  draughtsmanship  had  per- 
fected itself,  his  mastery  of  both  painting  and 
etching  had  rapidly  increased.  Before  the  War 
came  he  had  made  great  advances  as  an  inde- 
pendent artist.  He  followed  with  utter  sin- 
cerity, fine  instinct  and  constant  discrimination 
the  dictates  of  his  own  artistic  conscience.  He 
[    12    ] 


strove  for  the  very  highest  development  of 
great  and  genuine  gifts. 

His  first  child,  Constance,  was  born  a  year 
after  his  marriage.  His  second.  Henry  M. 
Hoyt,  4th,  several  years  later.  Both  children 
adored  him.  His  amusing  simplicity  and  lively 
sympathy  always  drew  children  to  him.  His 
diverting  personality  fascinated  them. 

For  he  could  always  play  with  the  greatest 
gaiety;  but  his  intellect  became  more  and  more 
vitally  interested  in  the  new  revolt  that  was 
changing  the  industrial  situation  in  America,  in 
the  new  order  of  thought  that  was  replacing  the 
old,  in  all  modern  social  developments  and  ex- 
periments. A  juvenile  admirer  of  Robin  Hood, 
Malory  and  Mark  Twain,  an  early  "discoverer" 
of  H.  G.  Wells,  one  who  as  an  undergraduate 
read  Ibsen  and  Shaw  with  gusto,  delighting  also 
in  the  poems  of  John  Davidson,  the  novels  of 
Thomas  Hardy,  the  socialistic  ideas  of  William 
Morris, — Henry  was  never  likely  to  ossify  into 
philosophical  or  political  conservatism.  There 
v/as  always  in  him  a  strong  and  decided  strain 
of  sympathy  for  the  lot  of  the  common  laborer, 
and  a  desire  for  what  William  James  called 
"tough-mindedness"  in  facing  the  grimmest 
facts  of  life.  His  admiration  went  out  to  any 
[    13    ] 


writer  or  philosopher  who  endeavored  to  unveil 
any  actual  truth  about  life.  He  read  modern 
economics  and  did  a  deal  of  thinking.  I  fear  my 
own  persistent  aesthetic  romanticism  irritated 
him  a  good  deal  at  one  time^  though  he  always 
retained  a  fine  appreciation  for  the  full  flavor 
of  old  books — Burton's  "Anatomy/'  Rabelais, 
the  Elizabethan  dramatists^  the  numerous  old 
ballads  and  catches  that  he  could  troll  so  di- 
vertingly.  And  surely  no  one  could  give  to  a 
fine  Spring  day  more  romance  and  glamour 
than  he ! 

He  liked  to  call  himself  a  Socialist.  Yet 
there  was  never  a  more  ingrained  individualist. 
I  do  not  mean  in  any  selfish  sense — but  the  in- 
dependence of  his  personality  was  too  intense 
for  it  to  be  otherwise.  So  his  revolt  remained 
largely  intellectual.  He  never  attached  himself 
to  any  organized  movement. 

On  the  other  hand,  Henry  never  worshipped 
any  art  in  the  sense  that  he  felt  it  the  most 
important  thing  in  the  world.  An  art  to  him 
was,  rather,  a  jolly  craft  at  which  to  work,  im- 
portant in  its  place,  but  not  nearly  so  important 
as  the  evolution  of  human  society  or  the  living 
of  a  full  and  useful  life.  He  would  have  been 
unbelievablv  happy  in  a  Wellsian  Utopia — per- 
■    [    14   ] 


haps  even  happier  as  a  Renaissance  guildsman 
or  artist.  He  always  had  a  great  interest  in 
other  professions  and  other  trades.  He  could, 
I  feel  sure,  have  made  himself  either  a  good 
physician  or  a  highly  skilled  carpenter.  He 
was  clever  with  his  hands  and  thoroughly  en- 
joyed making  himself  useful  in  many  ways 
about  his  own  home.  In  the  Air  Service  in 
France  he  took  the  same  vivid  interest  in 
photography.  I  have  known  few  men  who  could 
talk  as  entertainingly  or  with  such  a  fund  of 
information  upon  such  a  variety  of  subjects — 
from  the  philosophies  of  William  James  and 
Bergson  to  the  dexterity  of  John  J.  McGraw  at 
playing  "baby  ball."  As  his  friend,  John 
Storrs,  the  sculptor,  said  to  me,  "What  an  eye 
he  had!  He  enjoyed  everything  from  a  master- 
piece of  painting  to  a  prizefight !" 

If  this  picture  seems  highly  colored,  I  can 
only  say  that  the  man's  personality  was  vivid  in 
the  extreme.  He  carried  himself  with  a  certain 
air,  often  slightly  aggressive,  his  grave  or 
brightly  amused  eyes  taking  in  everything  that 
went  on  about  him.  "He  wore  an  overcoat  of 
glory." 

Well,  "what's  become  of  Waring?"  He  has 
left  us  his  brilliant  paintings,  his  admirable 
[    15    ] 


etchings  and  drawings;,  these  poems  and  this 
play,  chosen  from  among  the  scattered  work  he 
contributed  occasionally  to  various  magazines. 
The  play  and  some  of  the  poems  here  included 
have  never  before  been  published.  But  they  are 
at  best  such  fragmentary  testimony  to  what  he 
might  have  lived  to  do  in  literature !  Who  can 
really  recapture  the  man  from  them,  who  did 
not  actually  know  him.^  In  five  minutes  of  his 
energetic  talk  I  have  found  more  genuine  amuse- 
ment and  authentic  inspiration  than  in  nine  out 
of  any  ten  books  I  read.  In  his  letters — but  his 
correspondence  was  a  delight. 

Yes,  I  loved  my  friend.  I  loved  him  better 
than  any  man  I  have  ever  known.  We  were 
constantly  together  during  his  last  year,  and  I 
found  him,  one  evening,  August  25,  1920,  dead 
in  his  studio  apartment  where  we  were  tem- 
porarily living  together.  With  what  fortitude 
he  met  the  bitterest  period  of  his  life — that  last 
year  on  earth — I  know  deeply.  His  efforts  to 
help  others,  his  intense  desire  to  find  some  way 
of  life  that  would  be  regenerative,  some  sort  of 
leaven.  He  and  I  passed  through  hours  of  the 
greatest  happiness  and  hours  of  the  greatest  and 
blackest  bitterness  together.  My  efforts  to  help 
him  were  futile,  of  no  avail. 
[    16   ] 


But  nOj  he  wouldn't  want  me  to  say  that.  It 
was  perhaps  impossible  for  any  friend  to  have 
helped  him  much  during  the  final  period — 
though  I  feel  others  helped  him  more  than  I. 
In  any  event,  such  confidences  as  passed  be- 
tween us  are  forever  sacred.  And  Henry  is 
gone. 

But  one  remembers  small  last  things, — like 
our  standing  at  the  open  window  of  the  studio  in 
the  blue  evening  and  his  breathing,  of  the  still 
and  wistful-starred  night  sky,  "Such  beauty!" — 
like  his  last  words  to  me  at  the  foot  of  the 
Sixth  Avenue  Elevated  stairs,  that  last  morning, 
"Well,  I'll  see  you — later."  We  cannot  possibly 
know  just  when  he  made  up  his  mind  to  end  his 
life. 

All  it  meant  to  him — this  life!  It  meant  so 
much.  It  tortured  him  so  deeply  and  yet  he 
wrung  from  it  so  much  and  such  exquisite 
pleasure.  And  the  times  when  he  was  most 
happy  were  of  such  an  utter  simplicity — friends, 
his  family,  summer  evenings,  talk  to  the  ac- 
companiment of  some  handiwork,  snatches  of 
song,  Italian  restaurant  suppers,  lamplight,  the 
reading  of  poetry,  firelight,  mildly  hilarious 
pilgrimages  through  moonlit  streets, — friends, 
friends,  friends.  ...  He  made  manv  and 
[    17   ] 


various  friends  that  last  year.  He  spent  him- 
self in  friendship,  in  the  causes  of  his  friends, 
in  exuberance  over  their  success,  in  sympathy 
for  their  troubles. 

I  cannot,  for  myself,  believe  that  a  spirit  such 
as  Henry's  is  wasted.  Certainly  it  is  anything 
but  wasted  in  the  sense  that  he  did  not  leave 
behind  him  lasting  evidence  of  his  great  artistic 
versatility.  And  his  personality  will  remain  an 
inspiration  and  a  splendid  memory  in  the  hearts 
and  minds  of  all  who  knew  him.  Beyond  that, 
however,  I  myself  believe  in  a  reason  and  a 
purpose  for  such  spirits  which  does  not  exhaust 
itself  merely  upon  this  imperfect  world.  It  is 
this  faith,  largely,  that  helps  me  to  live. 

The  work  that  follows  speaks  for  itself.  He 
enlisted  upon  America's  entry  into  the  war  and 
served  as  a  sergeant  aviator  in  Italy  and  as  a 
First  Lieutenant  in  the  Photographic  Section  of 
the  Air  Service  in  France.  He  did  not  believe 
in  war  as  a  true  solution  of  anything.  Neither 
do  I.  He  felt  bitterly  disappointed  in  the  re- 
actionary aftermath  of  the  War.  So  do  many 
of  us  still.  He  was  an  honest  man  and  a  brave, 
intellectually  as  well  as  physically.  Of  old  and 
thoroughly  American  stock  he  was  yet  one  of  a 
new  generation  of  pioneers,  sworn  to  service 
[    18   ] 


against  diilness^  deadness,  contemporary  cant 
and  tyranny,  and  ancient  sham.  He  lived  and 
died  in  that  service — in  the  service  of  truth  and 
of  Man's  immortal  soul. 

WILLIAM  ROSE  BENET. 

New  York  City,  February,  1921. 


[    19   ] 


EARLY  POEMS 
1908-1911 


THE  LAND  OF  DREAMS 

Ah,  give  us  back  our  dear  dead  Land  of  Dreams ! 
The  far,  faint  misty  hills,  the  tangled  maze 
Of   brake   and   thicket;    down   green   woodland 

ways 
The  hush  of  summer,  and  on  amber  streams 
Bright  leaves  afloat,  amid  the  foam  that  creams 
Round   crannied  boulders,   where  the   shallows 

blaze. 
Then  life  ran  joyous  through  glad,  golden  days 
And  silver  nights  beneath  the  moon's  pale  beams. 

Now  all  is  lost.     There  glooms  a  dark  morass 
Where  throbbed  the  thrush  across  the  dappled 

lawn. 
Oh,  never  more  shall  fairy  pageants  pass. 
Nor   dance   of   light-limbed   satyr,   nymph   and 

faun. 
Adrift  among  the  whispering  meadow-grass. 
On   wind-swept   uplands,   yearning   toward  the 

dawn. 


[   23   ] 


ROME,  SUNSET 

A  rosy  flush  spreads  sweeping  o'er  the  tiles 
Flaming  from  dome  and  portico,  and  where 
Some    slim    gold    cross    spires    upward    like    a 

prayer. 
Flashes  a  misty  halo  to  the  miles 
Of  tiering  roof-tops.    Where  the  distance  smiles 
The  clouds  go  slowly  streaming  down  the  fair 
Far  vistas  of  the  sunset  seas  that  flare 
Saffron,  afoam  round  pearl  and  silver  isles. 

Palely  the  quiet  hem  of  twilight  falls. 
And,  as  a  far-off  bell  begins  to  peal 
Along  the  valley,  cloaks  the  rise  and  slips 
Over  the  lifting  skyline's  serried  w^alls. 
The  city  pauses,  vesperal,  to  feel 
The  timid  breath  of  evening  on  her  lips, 


[   24   ] 


JOHN  KEATS 

Seer  of  a  beauty  inexpressible, 

Master  of  melody  and  quiet  thought, 

Thou    art    the    real    world-teacher,    one    who 

w^rought 
Magic  undreamed  of  by  the  gods,  until 
The  earth  stood  breathless,  captive  to  thy  will, 
Who    recked    not    of    earth's    favors,    heeding 

naught 
But  high  ambition,  fantasies  that  sought 
Only  thy  perfect  mission  to  fulfill. 

Thou  raised  the  vanished  days  of  Greece  again. 
Clothed  in  new  splendor,  and  the  Orient  land 
Was  thy  familiar  garden;  then  death  smote 
Thy  life  out  with  excess  of  joy  and  pain. 
As  when,  upon  some  all-too-poignant  note. 
The  harpstring  snaps  beneath  the  player's  hand. 


[   25   ] 


THE  PAWNSHOP 

The  spectres  of  a  thousand  hopes  and  fears, 
Gathered  together  from  the  ends  of  earth, 
Have  found  a  haven.     In  this  house  of  dearth 
They  crouch  amid  the  dust  of  faded  years. 
Hostages  held  to  settle  waste's  arrears. 
Worthless  is  their  unutterable  worth, 
Tinged  with  the  gayness  of  a  far-off  mirth. 
Stained  by  the  sadness  of  forgotten  tears. 

Wild  Caprice  has  her  will  of  them,  and  flings 
Each  one  aside.     For  brighter  baubles.  Life 
Has  passed  them  by.     Dead  passions  intermix 
Among  a  motley  of  discarded  things — 
A  broken  music-box,  a  rusty  knife, 
A  baby's  rattle  by  a  crucifix. 


[26] 


BEFORE  A  PORTRAIT  OF 
REMBRANDT  AS  AX  OLD  MAN 

Rembrandt^  thy  youth  was  splendid  as  some  tale 

Of  one  who  held  a  genie's  secret  spell 

By  which  to  charm  the  world;, — unlock  each  cell 

And  rock-built  treasure  house,  and  to  prevail 

Over  all  chance  of  danger,  like  the  mail 

Of  famed  Achilles,  when  so  many  fell 

Roimd  Troy's  high  towers  and  golden  citadel, — 

So  conquering,  it  seemed  thou  couldst  not  fail. 

Out  of  the  darkness  of  thy  later  years 
Rose  that  full  glowing  light,  the  utmost  art, 
Born  of  the  poignant  searchings  of  thy  heart, 
Perfect,  untouched  by  either  hopes  or  fears: 
The  triumph  all  too  great  for  joy,  apart, — 
The  tragedy  of  life  too  deep  for  tears. 


[  27  ] 


THE  FISHERS 

The  swaying  tackle  dips  and  droops 
Down  from  the  star-beseeching  mast^ 
The  bent-back  sculler  swings  and  stoops, 
The  caster  makes  his  cast ; 
While  fast  and  fast  and  still  more  fast 
The  little  floats  run  down  to  lee, 
An  arc  across  the  evening  sea, 
To  net  who  knows  what  mystery. 

For  when  they  draw  the  dripping  meshes, 

Sagging  with  unknown  weight, 

Will  they  be  bright  with  silver  fishes, 

A  shining  mass  that  slips  and  threshes 

Among  the  cruel,  baffling  meshes, 

A  goodly  ocean  freight. 

Or  weed  and  kelp  and  coarse  sea  cress. 

Or  only  emptiness? 

Green,  glancing  fathoms  under  us 
What  sunken  wreckage  sleeps? 
What  age-old  treasure  wondrous, 
Great  spoil  of  tempests  thunderous 
White-maned  across  the  deeps? 
Scarce  swinging  in  the  ebbing  tide 
The  weighted  seine  slips  sheer. 
[  28   ] 


A  ripple  whispers  overside — 
What  salt  sea  spectre  pearly-eyed? 
The  murdered  buccaneer ! 

Some  night,  perchance,  of  starry  wonder, 

Of  slight  and  subtle  air, 

Some  stranger  form  may  cleave  asunder 

The  waves  in  phosphor  garlands  fair. 

Such  wealth  of  yellov/  hair! 

A  drowned  girl?     Nay,  but  mark  the  twining. 

Green-darkening  and  silver-shining. 

Below  the  rope-scarred  rail; 

Such  terror-stricken,  captured  splashing. 

Such  fear,  and  swiftly  struggling  lashing 

Of  gorgeous  fish's  tail; 

White  shaken  breasts  and  startled  eyes 

Above  the  straining  coils. 

Pleading  with  sea-wild,  dumb  surprise 

A  world  of  unguessed  agonies — 

A  mermaid  in  the  toils ! 

The  swinging  tackle  droops  and  dips 
Down  from  the  star-beseeching  mast. 
The  sculler's  oar-blade  slides  and  slips. 
From  swell  to  swell  the  coble  trips. 
The  caster  makes  his  cast. 
While  fast  and  fast  and  still  more  fast 
[   29   ] 


The  bubbles  spin  from  depths  below, 
Vi-lienas  the  nets  in  silence  go 
Down  through  the  many-shifting  sea 
To  snare  who  knows  what  mystery. 


[   30   ] 


THE  SPELL* 

As  I  came  up  the  sandy  road  that  lifts  above  the 
sea, 

Thrice  and  thrice  the  red  cock  crew, 

And  thrice  an  elfin  bugle  blew 
From  the  Gates  of  Faerie. 


And  riders  passed  me  on  the  left,  and  riders  on 
the  right, 

Clad  in  cramoisie  so  fine, 

Phantom  riders  nine  and  nine, 
That  faded  with  the  night. 


The  dawn  was  flushing  in  the  east  as  I  won  to 
my  door. 

And  there  within  the  ingle  dark 

One  had  drawn  a  cantrip  mark 
Upon  the  earthen  floor. 


The  thatch  was  matted  o'er  with  weeds,  the  well 
was  choked  with  stones. 
There  lay  a  shroud  upon  the  bed 
Draped  and  drawn  from  foot  to  head. 
As  white  as  dead  men's  bones. 
[   81    ] 


I    ran   and  shouted  down  the   street^  but  none 
would  heed  my  cry. 

I  screamed  across  the  market-place. 

Never  a  burgher  turned  his  face. 
In  silence  they  passed  by. 

Oh,  none  could  hear  and  none  could  see  the  man 
they  used  to  know. 

For  he  is  witched  for  seven  years, 

He  who  in  the  dawning  hears 
The  elfin  bugles  blow. 

As  I  came  up  the  sandy  road  that  lifts  above  the 
sea. 

Thrice  and  thrice  the  red  cock  crew, 

And  thrice  an  elfin  bugle  blew 
From  the  Gates  of  Faerie. 


"  This  poem,  written  some  ten  years  before,  was 
accepted  for  magazine  publication  on  the  morning  of 
the  day  of  the  author's  death. 


[   82   ] 


THE  WEE  M ANNIE 

The  dusk  was  dropping  yesternight  as  I  came 
o'er  the  down^ 
And  syne  I  saw  a  mannie  small, 
Bent  and  crooked,  swart  and  small, 
Standing  by  the  kirkyard  wall 

And  peering  toward  the  town. 

Then  soft  I  put  the  highway's  width  between  the 
wall  and  me, 

He  looked  so  eerie  in  the  dark. 

Strange  and  eerie  in  the  dark; 

And  thrice  I  heard  the  wolf-hound  bark 
That  crouched  beside  his  knee. 


But   oh,   his   eyes   were  unco'    sharp   to   pierce 
through  mist  and  mirk. 
He  called  me  softly  by  my  name. 
Wooed  and  called  me  by  my  name. 
Wooed  me  till  at  last  I  came 

And  stopped  before  the  kirk. 

And  as  I  stopped  before  the  kirk,  my  heart  was 
cold  with  dread. 
My  heart  was  cold  with  dread  and  fear, 
[    33    ] 


Clutched  by  icy  hands  of  fear^ 
For  faintly,  faintly  I  could  hear 
The  wailing  of  the  dead. 


They  wailed   and  whispered  in  the  wind  that 
whispered  down  the  sky, 
They  drifted  'mongst  the  headstones  white, 
Like  the  headstones  weird  and  white. 
Saints !  It  was  a  fearsome  sight 

To  watch  them  whirling  by. 


Then  straight  the  mannie  clasped  my  hand,  and 
straight  he  clasped  my  waist, 
He  whistled  shrill  an  elfin  tune. 
Shrill  and  sweet  a  magic  tune. 
And  drew  me  toward  their  rigadoon. 

I  crossed  myself  in  haste. 


The  stars  spun  round  above  my  head,  the  earth 
beneath  my  feet. 
I  clung  against  the  cross  of  stone. 
Clutched  the  holy  cross  of  stone.     ,     . 
Faith,  I  stood  there  all  alone 
Upon  the  naked  street ! 

[   34   ] 


And  nevermore  at  dusk  of  day  will  I  come  o'er 
the  down 
Lest  I  should  see  that  mannie  small, 
Bent  and  crooked,  swart  and  small, 
Standing  by  the  kirkyard  wall 

And  peering  toward  the  town. 


[35  ] 


THE  TOWER  CASEMENT 

Dumb  trembling  lips  of  darkness  brushed  my 
face, 

The  crawling  shadows  clung  around  my  feet, 
As  slowly  I  toiled  upward  toward  the  place 

Where  love  and  I  might  meet. 

Harsh  hissed  the  stone  beneatli  my  weary  trt  ad 
Mocking  my  labor.     Could  my  quest  be  vain? 

I  knew  not  if  by  falsehood  I  was  led 
Whither  my  soul  was  fain. 

Then,  clear  against  the  rosy  death  of  night. 
Showed  the   pale,  narrow  window.     All  the 
stair 

Was  paved  with  glory  in  the  morning  light 
I  knew  my  love  was  there. 


[   3«   ] 


POEMS  WRITTEN  DURING 
1920 


DEDICATORY 

I  could  not  feel 
That  I  had  crowned 
Your  brow  around 
With  flowers  meet, 
Till  at  your  feet 
I  laid  this  song, 
Not  fine,  not  strong, 
And  incomplete. 

But  from  a  heart 
Too  full  to  speak 
Aptly,  the  weak 
Words  fall;  ah,  hear! 
Or  far  or  near. 
Through  good  or  ill. 
For  their  plain  will 
Accept  them,  dear. 


[   39   1 


NOMAD 

From  the  far.  secret  sources  of  the  Nile^ 
Lost  springs  among  the  creepers  that  festoon 
The  foothills  of  the  Mountains  of  the  Moon 
Whose   loins   bear   whispering   jungle,   mile  on 

mile 
Upward,  toward  changeless  snow,  your  chang- 
ing smile 
Leads  back  across  the  ages,  like  some  tune 
Wrung    from   the    wailing   pipe    where    women 

croon 
Minor,  around  the  acrid  fires  the  while. 

Strange     beasts,     strange     burdens,     and     still 

stranger  tents 
Patched  from  the  lion's  golden  skin,  whose  lair 
Only  the  burning  desert  knows,  come  down, 
Pitching  between  the  river  and  the  town 
Their  nomad  camp ;  strange  sounds  and  stranger 

scents 
Beat  round,  but  in  the  midst  is  only  you 
Smiling  beneath  crisped  elf-locks  starred  with 

dew, 
Midnight's  pale  planets  in  your  midnight  hair. 


[   40   ] 


COLISEUM 

Love,  I  can  see  you  standing  starry-eyed 
Above  the  struggle  in  the  sun-drenched  cirque 
Untouched,  untroubled  by  the  savage  work 
Of  man,  or  finer  fury  of  the  pied, 
Striped,  maned,  or  dappled  beasts  that  crouched 

and  cried 
Below  the  parapet,  or  from  the  murk 
Of  the  barred  beast-pits  snarled  and  turned  to 

lurk 
Low  in  the  sand  some  mumbled  bones  beside. 

Over  the  purple-patched  campagna  clouds 
Go  marching  westward  orderly  and  fair, 
Rank  on  close  rank;  the  green  and  orient  sky 
Roofs  the  far  Adriatic  where  mists  lie 
Dreaming  on  mountainous  Dalmatia 
And  cliff -built  hill-towns  lost  to  stinking  crowds, 
Dust,  and  salt  sweat,  bright  blood  and  shining 

fascia. 
Still  you   stand  rapt,  look  forth  beneath  your 

crown 
Of  myrtle,  while  faint  breezes  of  the  town 
Twist  the  mysterious  mazes  of  your  hair. 


[  «  ] 


ON  THE  FLY-LEAF  OF  "RENASCENCE" 

Brown  hermit  thrush^  heart's  flame  in  checkered 

shade 
Where  the  high  meadow  reaches  to  the  pines 
And  birches,  silver-slender  in  long  lines 
Broken  by  fire-slain  russet  deadwood  made 
Glorious  when  golden,  slanted  sunbeams  fade 
Into  profundity  verdurous.     Like  bright   wines 
You  pour  your  wild  melodious  anodynes 
Down  to  a  world  unwonted,  unafraid 
Of  the  world's  heedless,  harsh  stupidity, 
Loud  laughter,  sudden  vip'rous  hate,  weak  tears. 
With  "all  the  lost  adventurers  your  peers" 
You  sound  your  heaven-high  clarion  to  destroy 
The  fool's  heart, — that  same  poignant  cry  set 

free 
New  England,  England,  Italy,  and  Troy! 


[   42   ] 


1917-1919 

There  are  a  few  things  I  shall  not  forget: 
Midnight    on    Montmartre — Sacre    Coeur — and 

where 
The  hill   drops   westward  down  that  plunging 

stair, 
The  few  blue  lights^,  a  fine-drawn,  far-flung  net 
Where  once  the  boulevards  blazed ;   aloft,  the 

fret 
And  chatter  of  the  rotaries — and  there, 
There  shrieks  the  siren,  wheeling  searchlights 

flare. 
The  raiders'  rhythm  drugs  my  ear-drums  yet. 

Midnight  in  Tours  against  some  moonlight  wall, 
Piedmont  in  chestnut-time,  at  Rimini 
Red  sails  acluster, — going  to  the  wars, 
Breasting  the  night-chop  of  the  Irish  Sea, 
The  transport's  deck  in  darkness,  over  all 
Lifeboats    swung    outboard,   black    against    the 
stars ! 


[   43    ] 


HYPERION  TO  A  SATYR 

Friend,  I  can  see  you  there  among  the  reeds^ 
With  that  bright,  onyx  eye,  aslant  to  catch 
My    every    movement,     and     brown,    flattened 

thighs 
Showing  each  corded  muscle  flex  and  roll 
As  you  shift  weight  to  this  heel  and  to  that, 
Squatting    among    crushed    leafage    and    sweet 

grass. 
Ah,  goat-legs,  are  you  still  as  sensitive 
As  once  you  were,  with  ear  attuned  to  catch 
The  smallest  breath  of  all  the  forest  sounds. 
The  farthest  hollo,  rumored  Echo's  call 
Fainting  and  frail  from  some  blue,  misty  hill, 
The  booming  hive  or  just  one  wind-blown  bee. 
The  leap  of  fish  through  thunderous  waterfalls? 
If  but  your  mind  could  match  the  senses'  edge, 
So  keen,  it  more  than  takes  the  place  of  mind. 
And  builds   a   primitive   greatness   round   your 

soul ! 
For  what  is  mind  but  something  shallow,  bright 
As  this  small  polished  disk  of  bronze  I  hold 
So  aptly  in  the  hollow  of  m}^  hand 
To  watch  you,  plumb  you,  study  you  at  ease? 
Thus  you  grow  bolder,  hold  j^ourself  secure, 

[    44   ] 


Feeling  that  since  my  back  is  squarely  turned 
And  eyes  are  ever  in  the  front  of  heads 
There  is  no  slightest  chance  to  be  observed. 
Well,  instinct  is  at  fault,  but  there's  no  need 
To  feel  superior  about  a  bit 
Of  polished  metal  for  itself^  its  trick 
Of  showing,  if  one  hold  it  close  enough^ 
Earth,  air,  and  water  in  this  little  round 
My  hand  encompasses  with  such  an  ease. 
Move  I  it  slightly,  and  the  giddy  clouds 
Go  pouring  slantwise  in  a  cataract, 
And  the  sun  reels  and  riots  in  the  sky. 
Now  once  more  back  to  hold  the  water-weeds, 
Mallow  and  marsli-grass  by  the  river's  edge, 
And  you  drawn  down  betv/een  close-sheltering 

stalks, 
A  little  frightened  by  the  gesture  made 
When  the  sun  rolled,  a  gold  bead,  in  my  palm. 
Do  you  remember  our  first  meeting,  our 
Instant  and  certain  friendship,  sympathy? 
How  much  I  loved  you — loved  you.^ — love  you 

still. 
But  that  was  long,  so  very  long  ago, 
And  earth  and  heaven  have  grown  old  toward 

death. 
Weary  and  desperate  and  full  of  tears. 
We  will  not  think  on  that,  for  when  there  yawns 
[   45    ] 


Between  the  far^  fair  hills  we  left  and  those 
High;,    austere   mountains    that    were    our    first 

goal, 
A  chasm  full  of  meagreness  and  stones, 
When  we   draw   first   breath   on   the  hard-won 

height, 
We  but  glance  downward,  then  look  far  across, 
With  a  slight,  certain  sadness  for  the  past. 
That  land  was  beautiful,  those  hills  were  fair. 
Earth  was  a  course  to  run  and  heaven  a  hope, 
A  wider  field  to  master  in  good  time. 
Do  you  remember }    Still,  I  do  not  know 
If  memory  is  quite  the  thing  I  mean, 
For  I  am  certain  that  you  felt  as  I 
Felt  then,  and  if  the  image  of  that  time 
Is  gone,  or  never  lived  beyond  its  one 
Moment,  it  makes  no  difference  at  all. 
At  least  rate,  satyr,  I  got  much  of  you, — 
A  trick  of  treading,  soft  as  thistle-down. 
To  steal  upon  shy  creatures  and  surprise 
Their    ways,    their    loves,    and    all    their    little 

life,— 
A  brood  of  querulous,  downy  pheasant  chicks, 
The  business  and  importance  of  the  ant. 
Serpents  impersonal,  liquid  and  aloof, 
Or  butterflies  that  have  no  will  at  all 
[   46   ] 


Once    they    have    burst    their    cerements,    got 

free.     .     . 
If,  as  we  rubbed  warm  shoulders,  poring  down 
Rapt,  on  some  little  drama  of  the  dust, 
You  reached  a  brown  hand,  rapid  as  the  flash 
A  fish  makes,  striking  at  a  summer  fly. 
Catching  and  crushing  the  life  out  with  a  laugh, 
After  the  first  cold  impact  of  surprise 
I  knew  that  it  was  nothing  to  be  held 
Blameworthy,  brutal  in  you,  but  the  drive 
Of    sphynx-faced    nature    working    toward   her 

ends.     .     . 

[Uncompleted] 


[   47   ] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  WORLD 


THE    MASTER    OF    THE    WORLD 

Scene:  A  street  in  the  outskirts  of  the  town 
of  Corinth.  On  the  right  a  house-wall,  with  two 
windows,  one  above  the  other,  the  lower  one 
protected  by  a  bronze  grill.  Front,  a  deep 
archway,  no  door  visible.  At  the  bach,  and  con- 
tinuing the  wall  of  the  house,  a  garden  wall. 
Above  the  wall  a  few  branches  of  laurel  show 
against  a  cold  blue  shy.  On  the  left  two  small 
shops,  scarcely  more  than  booths.  That  toward 
the  front  is  a  wine  shop  with  a  bush  over  the 
door,  a  wisp  of  awning  over  the  window,  and  a 
long  rough  wooden  bench  in  front.  The  second 
is  no  more  than  a  stall  the  whole  front  of  which 
is  open.  A  few  fowls,  bunches  of  onions  and 
cheeses  in  nets  hanging  from  the  lintel-beam, 
and  some  wooden  measures  full  of  barley  in 
front  show  it  to  be  the  shop  of  a  foodvendor. 
A  willow  cage  holding  a  magpie  hangs  on  a 
brachet  at  the  rear  corner.  The  whole  scene  is 
flooded  with  early  morning  sunlight,  left  to 
right.  The  food-vendor  comes  out  of  his  booth. 
[   51    ] 


He  is  a  small  man,  fatt'ish  and  groxvinc)  bald. 
He  is  drest  in  a  dirtij  (/reyisli-i/elloic  chiton, 
rather  too  short  for  him,  and  a  pair  of  worn 
sandals.  He  surveys  his  stock  7cith  a  rather 
ruefid  air. 

The  Foodvendor.  A  fine  show  it  makes,  but 
what  can  I  do?  These  accursed  farmers  bring 
what  they  w^ant,  when  they  want.  And  the 
prices  they  demand!  [He  makes  a  move  to  re- 
arrange a  hunch  of  onions,  draping  it  against 
one  of  the  wooden  measures,^  What  chance  is 
tliere  for  the  honest  tradesman  to  make  a  living? 
[Pause.^  The  citizens  are  as  bad;  such  a  to-do 
over  the  smallest  rise  in  prices.  You  would 
tliink  that  a  few  coppers  more  for  a  fowl  or  a 
bunch  of  onions  was  a  crime  on  my  part.  Now 
by  tlie  gods,  was  there  ever  a  scurvier  bit  of 
fortune  than  this :  on  the  very  day  when  I  needs 
must  make  a  brave  show  of  my  wares  to  catch 
the  trade  of  the  newcomers  across  the  way, 
there  isn't  a  countryman  has  come  crying  his 
truck  along  the  street,  and  it  long  after  sun-rise. 
Slotli  I  can't  abide,  nor  immorality.  They  must 
be  up  to  all  sorts  of  beastliness  on  the  farms  to 
lie  so  late  of  a  morning. 

[The  wine  seller  comes  out  of  his  shop  and 
[    S2   ] 


leans  against  the  door-jamh.  He  is  a  huge  man 
with  a  round  red  face  on  which  he  keeps  an  ex- 
pression of  mock  gravity.  His  sleeves  are  rolled 
up  to  his  shoulders  and  an  enormous  wine- 
stained  apron  covers  his  chiton  from  armpit  to 
knee.] 

The  Wine  Seller.  Still  talking,  neighbor? 
If  it's  to  yourself  you  are  speechifying,  you  had 
better  look  to  your  wits;  they'll  soon  be  addled 
on  that  fare.  If  it's  the  magpie  who  is  the 
audience,  he's  as  deaf  as  a  post^  and  if  it's  me, 
why  I've  other  things  to  listen  to.  I'm  married 
myself. 

The  Foodvendor.  Good  morning,  neighbor. 
I  suppose  you  are  right  and  one  should  not 
shout  one's  troubles  to  the  street,  but  it's  as 
empty  as  an  old  wine-skin  of  yours. 

The  Wine  Seller.  Empty,  yes.  But  you 
mentioned  the  new  arrivals  and  who  knows  but 
they  may  be  looking  out  one  of  those  windows  to 
see  what  all  the  noise  is,  and  overhearing  your 
little  plots  to  get  their  trade.  Put  a  brave  front 
on  it  and  they'll  be  the  making  of  j^ou  yet. 

The  Foodvendor.     It's  easy  for  you  to  talk, 

friend,    and    be    cheerful.      Your   trade's    good, 

without  any  shifts  and  tricks,  and  pretending  a 

prosperity  you  haven't  got.     With  us  it's  all  a 

[   S3   ] 


question  of  the  tone  of  the  establishment:  if 
you've  a  choice  thing,  the  early  artichoke^,  the 
milk-fed  capon,  the  rich  will  pay  any  price  for 
it  and  no  miserable  haggling  over  the  last  cop- 
per. But  I've  no  capital.  And  the  wealthy 
farmers  never  even  stop  to  ask  me  if  I  want  to 
buy. 

The  Wine  Seller.  Ho,  ho!  And  no  won- 
der, when  they  hear  you  bargaining  with  some 
half-starved  yokel  to  beat  down  the  price  of  his 
wizened  pippins.  You  have  such  a  desperate 
pleading  way  with  you,  friend,  it  would  melt  a 
heart  of  brass. 

The  Foodvendor.  Well,  I  don't  know  why 
it  is  this  world  should  be  such  a  mad  place.  Wr 
all  know  it  is  necessary  to  eat  to  live,  and  that 
it  is  not  necessary  to  drink, — I  don't  drink. 
[The  wine  seller  raises  his  eyebrows  as  though 
expressing  doubt  of  the  foodvendor' s  really  liv- 
ing.^ And  yet  they'll  haggle  with  me  over  a 
mere  nothing  and  then  waste  a  score  as  much 
making  hogs  of  themselves,  sitting  on  your  bench 
swilling  wine.  [Plaintively^  It  isn't  good  for 
the  tone  of  my  shop  to  have  them  there,  shout- 
ing their  bawdy  songs  and  laughing.  It 
frightens  the  maidservants  so  that  they  go  down 
the  street  to  my  rivals. 

[  54  ] 


The  Wine  Seller.  Our  old  argument, 
friend.  When  will  the  world  settle  it.^  As  for 
me,  I  hold  with  Epicurus,  by  inclination,  and 
because  it's  good  business.  [With  excitement] 
Why,  Zeus,  man,  one  year  of  good  wine  and 
good  talk  is  worth  more  than  a  lifetime  of 
pale.  .  .  But  what's  the  use,  and  anyway, 
here  comes  the  new-comers'  servant  girl,  so  I'll 
leave  you  to  make  an  impression  with  the  "tone" 
of  your  shop.  [The  wine  seller  goes  into  his 
shop.]  She'd  only  have  eyes  for  my  beauty  if  I 
stayed. 

[The  maidservant  enters  from  the  archxvay 
right.  She  is  a  girl  of  about  fifteen,  with  a 
merry  face  browned  by  the  sun.  Her  hair  is 
tied  up  ill  a  icoolen  cloth,  from  under  which  red 
curls  show.  She  wears  a  long  white  chiton  with 
a  green  border  {Greek  fret)  and  carries  a  basket 
on  her  arm.  As  she  is  turning  right,  the  food- 
vendor  coughs  in  what  he  considers  to  be  a 
fetching  manner.] 

The  Foodvendor.  Ahem!  Good  morning, 
my  girl.  [Suddenly  afraid  that  he  is  being  too 
dignified,  and  descending  swiftly  to  a  ivheedling 
manner]  Aren't  you  looking  for  a  nice  fat  fowl, 
or  a  fine  cheese,  or  maybe  a  bunch  of  onions  to 
[   55    ] 


boil  in  white  sauce?  Come,  look,  here's  of  tlie 
best,  straight  from  the  farms  this  morning. 

[The  girl  pauses  uncertainly,  smiles  at  the 
foodvendor  in  a  friendly  fashion,  showing  strong 
zvhite  teeth,  and  turns  left  toward  his  shop.] 

The  Foodvendor  [at  her  elboiv]  Just  look. 
My  stock  is  rather  short  this  morning,  because 
I've  sold  almost  everything  already  to  the 
steward  of  a  noble  who  is  giving  a  great  feast 
today.     But  what  is  left  is  of  the  freshest. 

The  Maid.  The  freshest,  you  say.^  [Pull- 
ing a  feiv  feathers  from  the  breast  of  one  of  the 
foxvls]  Why,  what  do  you  take  me  for.  I  wasn't 
born  and  raised  on  a  farm  for  nothing.  Your 
fowls  were  killed  last  week  and  your  onions 
have  gone  to  seed. 

The  Foodvendor  [xvhining]  I  do  my  best, 
young  woman.  It's  all  this  unfair  competition 
with  those  who  have  capital  back  of  them. 
[Coaxingly]  You  may  know  all  about  a  farm, 
but  you've  things  to  learn  of  our  city  ways. 
Look  you,  it  will  be  worth  your  while  to  buy 
from  me.  I'll  make  it  worth  your  while.  That's 
something  you  didn't  know.  Now  this  is  the 
way  it  is.     .     .     . 

The  Maid  [interrupting]  Oh,  I  know  all 
about  that.  I  may  be  a  countrv  girl  but  I 
[   56   ] 


wasn't  born  yesterday.  They  will  make  rae  the 
same  offer  at  all  the  other  shops.  But  I've  some 
pride  in  what  I  do  know  and  so  you  needn't 
hope  that  I'll  buy  poor  when  I  can  find  the  best, 
all  for  a  bit  of  ribbon  or  even  a  pair  of  gilt 
sandals,  come  to  that.  [Changing  the  subject 
crisply^  That  cheese  is  good;  I'll  take  it. 

[She  unhooks  the  cheese,  places  it  in  her 
basket,  and  gives  monei/.] 

The  Foodvendor.  Bu-but  wait ;  you  haven't 
paid  me  enough.  I  gave  more  than  that  to  the 
farmer's  wife  who     .     .     . 

The  Maid.  Nonsense !  I  know^  what  you 
give  for  a  cheese  of  that  size  and  qualit}'.  Now 
I'm  off  to  see  if  the  other  dealers  are  as  bad  as 
you  are.  But  we'll  understand  each  other 
sooner  or  later,  never  fear.  That  is,  you'll 
understand  me.  I  understand  you  now.  [Goes 
off  right  front.] 

[The  hawker  enters  from  left  rear,  around 
corner  of  the  foodvendor's  shop.  He  is  a  tall, 
skinny  man  with  a  red  nose  and  an  air  of  great 
sophistication.  He  has  a  short  russet  chiton 
and  a  faded  blue  cloak  flung  over  one  shoulder 
in  what  is  now  the  Spanish  maimer.  He  cocks 
his  head  at  the  magpie,  resting  his  tray  on  one 
hip.] 

[   57   ] 


The  Hawker.  Well,  old  timer,  and  how  are 
you  today?  Poorly,  thanks  be  to  the  gods? 
You  always  M^ere  a  sardonic  fellow.  But  with 
more  sense  in  one  of  your  tail-feathers  than 
your  master  has  in  all  of  his  pursy  little  body. 

[The  foodvendor  starts  angrily  and  goes  off 
right  front,  bristling  with  offended  dignity.^ 

The  Foodvendor  [muttering  as  he  goes^ 
Professional  jealousy!      [Exit.^ 

The  Hawker  [taking  something  from  his 
tray  and  holding  it  between  thumb  and  fore- 
figer]  Here's  something  for  you,  my  brave  one, 
my  little  pied  actor.  Oh,  how  he  can  strut,  and 
rant  in  pantomime.  Take  it,  take  it,  it's  whole- 
some. They  all  eat  them,  from  prince  to  beggar, 
and  spit  the  skins  out  anywhere,  till  the  seats  at 
the  theatre  are  as  dirty  as  the  floor  of  your 
cage.  But  now  I'm  fouling  my  own  nest  and  a 
wise  bird  never  does  that,  unless  he's  locked  up 
in  a  prison  as  you  are,  my  prince  of  fowls. 
[Confidentially]  Speaking  of  princes,  I'll  tell 
you  a  secret  that  they  don't  know  in  this  sleepy 
suburb.  Guess  who  is  coming  to  town  today? 
Incognito,  of  course,  as  the  barbarians  of  Rome 
have  it,  but  here  just  the  same.  [In  an  impres- 
sive whisper]   ALEXANDER  THE  GREAT! 

The  Magpie.     Alexander  the  Great! 
[   58   ] 


The  Hawker.  So  that  breaks  your  silence, 
does  it?  I'd  no  idea  you  were  impressed  by 
worldly  pomp  and  magnificence.  I  thought  you 
were  the  perfect  philosopher,  the  complete 
cynic,  like  Diogenes.  Well,  I  must  hawk  my 
wares  to  the  crowds  which  will  gather  like  flies 
over  carrion  when  the  rumor  gets  about. 
[Going]  Empty-heads!  Wind  in  the  skull, 
wind  in  the  mouth,  wind  in  the  belly.  [He  goes 
out  right  front,  crying,  off]  BEANS !  WHO'S 
FOR  BOILED  BEANS?  [Farther  off] 
Golden  beans — golden  as  amber  from  the 
Sicilies,  golden  as  honey,  golden  as  a  little  hen 
pheasant's  eye!     Who's  for  be-e-eans? 

[As  the  sound  of  the  hawker's  cries  grow 
fainter,  a  rumbling  is  heard  from  left  rear  and 
an  old  man  appears,  rolling  before  him  a  great 
empty  cash.  He  settles  it  with  its  open  end 
toward  the  front,  in  the  angle  formed  by  the 
wall  of  the  house  and  the  garden  wall.  Up  to 
this  time  his  face  has  not  been  turned  toward 
the  audience,  and  there  is  nothing  impressive  in 
the  bowed  figure  clad  in  one  shapeless  grey 
woolen  garment  like  a  voluminous  sack,  which 
reaches  to  within  two  or  three  inches  of  the 
knee.     He  wears  no  sandals.] 

The  Old  Man  [Turning  and  facing  front, 
[   69  ] 


with  one  hand  on  the  rim  of  the  cask^  Beans. 
[His  face  is  remarkable,  with  a  lofty,  craggy 
forehead,  around  which  grow^  thick  grey  curls 
in  great  disorder.  His  eyehroivs,  bushy  and 
tangled,  almost  hide  his  eyes,  which  are  sur- 
rounded by  xm-inkles  of  laughter  and  deep 
thought.  His  nose  is  large  and  formless,  his 
mouth  broad  and  mobile  under  the  curling 
beard,  which  is  only  streaked  with  grey.] 
Golden  beans !  What  is  gold  ?  Mere  dross,  an 
inferior  metal  except  for  the  chance  that  it  is 
difficult  to  find.  Amber,  they  say  is  unlucky, 
lioney  is  cloying,  and  a  little  hen  pheasant's  eye 
is  hard  and  lustful.  Why  not  say  golden  as — 
sunlight,  I  must  suggest  it  to  him,  in  such  a 
way  as  not  to  hurt  his  feelings.  [He  smiles  and 
shakes  his  head.]  I'm  getting  soft  and  senti- 
mental in  my  old  age,  but  this  weather  and  this 
sun-drenched  corner  [sits  down  in  opening  of 
cask  and  stretches  out  his  legs]  would  make 
anybody's  peace  with  the  world.  [He  half 
closes  his  eyes  and  his  face  takes  on  a  look  of 
great  gentleness.  Musing]  After  all,  these 
simple  spots  show  me  that  humanity  is  not  so 
bad  and  stupid  as  I  sometimes  think. 

[The  foodvendor  enters  right  front  with  his 
arms  laden  with  vegetables  and  a  large  basket, 
[   60   ] 


He  does  not  notice  the  old  man  but  goes  straight 
to  his  shop-front  and  J)egins  to  nrran.H  Ins 
neic  stock,  muttering  to  Jiimself.] 

The  Foodvendor.  Slipped  oul  to  the  city 
gate  and  found  a  farmer  very  drunk.  Ho.  ho! 
They  think  they  are  sharp,  these  country  boors, 
but  I  was  one  too  many  for  him.  Bought  him 
tliree  cups  of  wine  and  saved  their  price  five 
times  over  in  what  I  paid  for  his  truck. 

The  Wine  Seller  [appearing  in  his  door- 
icai/]  So,  my  moral  friend.  You  are  not  blind 
to  the  virtues  of  Bacchus  after  all ! 

The  Foodvendor  [ichining  and  on  the  de- 
fensive] Well,  you  know  that  in  driving  a  bar- 
gain it  is  everybody  for  Iiimself.  Besides,  if  I 
were  to  .  .  .  [He  turns  and  catches  sight  of 
the  cask  itnth  the  old  man  half  asleep  in  it.  As 
the  latter  does  not  look  at  all  dangerous,  he 
adopts  a  blustering  manner.]  We-el,  wliat  are 
you  doing  there,  old  fellow?  You  must  be  off 
now,  witli  your  cask.  We  don't  allow  that  sort 
of  thing  in  this  neighborliood.  It's  bad  for  the 
tone  and  it's  bad  for  trade. 

The  Old  Man  [raising  his  head  and  looking 
at  the  foodvendor  zcith  such  fury  that  the  latter 
jumps  as  though  he  had  been  stung]  WE! 
[With  cold  scorn]   Where  got  you  the  brilliant 

[  fii  ] 


and  quaint  idea  to  use  that  word  "we"  ?  You've 
no  title  to  the  land  where  your  miserable  hut 
stands,  the  hut  itself  is  as  leaky  as  an  old 
sieve — a  breath  would  blow  it  away.  [Lower- 
ing his  voice]  But  don't  think  that  would  make 
me  scorn  you.  This  house  of  mine  [rapping 
with  his  knuckles  on  the  side  of  the  cask]  well, 
it  is  not  impressive  architecturally  speaking, 
nor  especially  spacious.  But  it  is  weather- 
proof, and — it  suits  me,  it  suits  me. 

The  Foodvendor  [taking  heart  at  the  milder 
tone  and  beginning  to  bluster  again]  I'll  have 
you  know  that  I  am  an  honest  tradesman  and 
you  are  [he  searches  for  the  most  crushing 
word]  a  beggar. 

The  Old  Man  [barking]  A  beggar.'^  Homer 
begged  his  bread.  And  you  an  honest  man,  you 
shadow,  you  lousy  wisp.^  By  Zeus,  he  calls  it 
virtue  to  lie  by  his  wife  through  cowardice  and 
lust  after  the  little  maidservants  who  buy  his 
stale  carrots.  He  calls  it  sobriety  to  be  too 
mean  and  too  dyspeptic  to  drink  a  glass  of  wine 
himself,  and  yet  if  it  is  a  question  of  cheating 
some  poor  befuddled  oaf,  he  will  do  his  all  to 
make  him  as  drunk  as  a  pig.  There's  not  a  fine 
thought  conceived,  there's  not  a  beautiful  word 
spoken  in  that  sty  of  yours.  A  blue-faced  ape 
[  62   ] 


would  think  shame  to  have  you  claim  cousinship 
with  him.  Now  go,  and  don't  dare  to  so  much 
as  to  look  askance  at  me  again. 

[The  foodvendor,  utterly  crushed  and  out- 
raged in  his  feelings,  shuffles  over  to  the  bench  in 
front  of  the  wine-shop  and  collapses  on  it.  He 
is  almost  in  tears.  During  the  whole  of  the  pre- 
ceding dialogue  the  wine  seller  has  been  leaning 
against  the  door-jamb  with  his  arms  clasped 
across  his  stomach  to  control  his  laughter.] 

The  Wine  Seller.  Don't  you  know  who 
it  is.^ 

The  Foodvendor.  Know  who  it  is?  I 
should  hope  not.  Why^  he  isn't  human !  I  never 
had  anybody  speak  to  me  like  that  in  my  life — 
not  the  finest  gentleman  among  all  the  nobles, 
not  the  bravest  soldier  in  the  army.  [Sobbing] 
It  isn't  fair  to  outrage  a  man's  feelings  that 
way,  it  isn't  decent.  He  knows  I'm  afraid  of 
him  and  he  takes  advantage  of  that.  I'll  never 
be  able  to  hold  up  my  head  again.  It  is  enough 
to  break  the  spirit  of  an  Alexander. 

The  Wine  Seller.     Oh,  cheer  up,  you'll  get 
over  it,  you'll  live  it  down,  in  fact  I  wouldn't  be 
surprised  to  hear  you  boast  of  the  conversation 
wuth  pride,  after  a  few  days. 
[   63   ] 


The  Foodvendok  [ainiosf  speechless]  Willi 
p)'icle? 

The  Wine  Seller.  Yes,  because  it  isn't 
everybody  wlio  could  get  sucli  a  flow  of  lan- 
guage out  of  liim. 

The  Foodvendor.     But  wlio  is  he? 

The  Wine  Seller.     Just — Diogenes. 

The  Foodvendor.  Diogenes.^  [He  glances 
furtively  in  the  direction  of  the  old  man,  looks 
auny  as  the  latter  stirs  slightly,  and  begins  to 
feel  himself  all  over,  very  gently,  as  though  he 
had  just  had  a  miraculous  escape.  Brightening] 
Diogenes.'^  Well,  really  you  know,  that  changes 
the  state  of  affairs.  That's  very  interesting  and, 
now, — interesting.  Why,  he's  a  famous  char- 
acter. He's  very  well  known.  He'd  even  be 
fasliionable  if  he  would  let  people  make  a  fuss 
over  him.  At  least  so  I've  been  told.  But  I'd 
as  soon  ask  a  wild  boar  to  a  feast,  he's  that 
savage.  But  he  is  a  privileged  character.  Oh, 
yes.  and  if  he'll  only  stay  here,  he'll  be  very 
good  for  trade.  I  wonder  if  there  is  any  way  to 
suggest  an  arrangement,  an  arrangement  of 
mutual  advant —     .     .     . 

The  Wine  Seller  [interrupting]  Good  Pol- 
lux, and  vvill  you  be  sticking  your  head  into  that 
hornet's  nest  again?  That's  the  worst  of  you 
[   CA   ] 


smart  business  men,  with  your  hole  and  corner 
suggestions  and  your  arrangements  of  mutual 
advantage.  You've  no  sense  of  proportion  and 
think  that  the  hook  that  will  hold  a  minnow  will 
serve  for  a  whale.  You  might  as  well  suggest 
an  arrangement  with  Mount  Olympus. 

[Ejiter  three  carters  right  front.  They  are 
covered  with  dust  and  hold  ox-goads  with  the 
rather  graceful  solemnity  of  the  half -drunk.] 

First  Carter.  Well,  boys,  what  did  I  tell 
you?  As  pretty  a  little  wine  shop  as  ever 
thirsty  eyes  gazed  on,  and  a  bench  which  will 
just  hold  us  three.  [Singing  in  a  maudlin, 
manner] 

As  pretty  as   thirsty  eyes   could  see. 
And  a  bench  which  will  hold  us  three. 

Second  Carter.  If  you  don't  hold  your 
tongue,  and  hold  your  liquor,  the  bench  will 
hold  only  two.  I  can't  stand  mixed  metaphors 
or  mixed  drinks,  and  nobody  can  stand  your 
singing. 

Third  Carter.  He  means  no  harm.  Any- 
way, let's  drink.  Mine  host,  three  cups  of  wine, 
and  swiftly,  as  we  want  to  get  back  where  the 
crowd  is  thickest.  [The  wine  seller  goes  in  and 
returns  almost  immediately  with  three  leather 
[  66   ] 


cups  and  a  skin  of  wine.  Handing  a  cup  to  each, 
he  fills  them  from  the  skin.] 

The    Three    Carters     [together,    drinking] 
Good  stuff.     [They  wipe  their  mouths  and  rise.] 

[The  maidservant  enters  right  front,  crying, 
with  her  basket  hanging  empty  from  one  hand.] 

First  Carter.  Don't  cry,  my  little  one, 
don't  cry,  my  pretty  duck. 

Second  Carter.     Leave  her  alone,  fool! 

Third  Carter.  Don't  snap  at  him  like  that. 
Can't  you  enjoy  a  drink  or  so  without  criticizing 
everybody?  Be  courtly,  as  I  am.  Like  this: 
[Turning  to  the  girl  with  a  deep  bow]  Fair  one, 
why  these  tears?  Though  they  become  your 
cheeks  like  pearly  dewdrops  on  the  damask  rose, 
yet    .     .     . 

Maidservant.     Stop ! 

Foodvendor.  Hoity-toity,  where  are  your 
manners,  miss?  Is  this  the  way  they  teach  you 
to  answer  a  civil  question  in  the  country?  And 
how  about  your  market  basket?  Empty,  eh? 
We  aren't  so  smart  as  we  thought  we  were  when 
making  game  of  the  stock  of  a  humble  merchant ! 

Second  Carter.  Damn  you,  don't  speak  to 
her  like  that ! 

First    Carter.     And   the   man   who   says    a 

[   ^Q   ] 


word  against  the  country  will  have  to  reckon 
with  me ! 

Third  Carter.  You  little  sneering  scorpion^ 
somebody  ought  to  step  on  you. 

[At  this  general  outburst  of  disapproval  the 
foodvendor  backs  toward  his  shop  followed  by 
the  three  carters  in  a  chorus  of  criticism.  The 
girl,  forgotten  by  attacker  and  defenders  alike, 
stands  irresolute,  wiping  her  eyes  on  her  bare 
arm  and  grimacing  like  a  small  child,  to  keep 
down  her  sobs.^ 

Diogenes  [softly'l  Come  here,  child.  [He 
rises,  takes  the  basket  from  her  gently,  reverses 
it  so  that  it  forms  a  low  stool,  and  makes  her  sit 
down  on  it.  In  the  meantime,  the  foodvendor 
has  slipped  round  the  corner  of  his  shop,  left 
rear,  and  disappeared,  followed  by  the  three 
carters.]  Let's  see_,  the  basket  is  empty.  But 
don't  cry  any  more,  I'm  sure  we  can  fix  it  all 
right  if  we  only  think.  Don't  cry.  You  can  tell 
me  about  it  in  a  minute  or  so.  Or  I  will  begin. 
You  went  down  the  street  and  bought  a  fowl. 

Maidservant.     A  peahen. 

Diogenes  [nodding]  Yes,  a  peahen.  And 
then  you  were  looking  for  early  artichokes. 

Maidservant  [brightening]  Yes,  and  carrots, 
and  I  found  such  good  ones.  And  figs.  The 
[   67   ] 


figs  are  wonderful  this  year.  There  was  a 
crowd  and  it  got  thicker  all  the  time. 

Diogenes.  Crowds  do.  That's  why  I  avoid 
them  now. 

Maidservant.  And  there  was  a  long  man.  a 
man  with  a  funny  nose  who     .     .     . 

Diogenes.     The  beanseller.^ 

Maidservant.  The  beanseller.  He  cried  out 
in  a  loud  voice^  hawking  his  beans.  [Breath- 
lessly^  And  then  there  were  soldiers,  oh  such 
beautiful  men,  like  young  gods.  And  the  crowd 
pressed  forward,  and  I  saw  a  young  man  among 
the  soldiers.  A  god  he  was,  with  fair  copper 
colored  hair  in  tight  curls  like  carved  metal,  and 
the  bridge  of  his  nose  was  like  the  prow  of  a 
swift  ship.  At  least,  I  never  saw  such  a  ship, 
but  it  made  me  think  of  that,  and  lots  of  excit- 
ing things.  Then  I  stood  on  tiptoe,  for  I  am 
very  small,  and  my  basket  slipped  and  every- 
thing tumbled  in  the  dust.  But  the  crowd  only 
laughed  and  trampled  by  me,  and  the  soldiers 
closed  in  and  I  did  not  see  my  beautiful  man 
any  more.      [Sohs.'\ 

Diogenes  [patting  her  head^  Crowds,  crowds. 

Here   we   are,   with   our   little   baskets    full    of 

household  virtues,  and  we  see  the  rare  thing,  the 

fine  thing,  or  anyway  the  thing  that  seems  fine 

[   68   ] 


to  us.  And  our  souls  stand  on  tiptoe  with  joy. 
Then  the  crowd  pitches  all  our  little  virtues  in 
the  dust;  and  laughs.  [Shaking  himself,  to 
throw  off  his  disgust.]  Anyway^  we  can  fill  your 
basket  again^  so  cheer  up,  child. 

Maidservant.  Oh,  I  wasn't  crying  about  the 
marketing.  My  mistress  can  beat  me  for  that, 
but  it  was  really  an  accident  and  I  can  stand  it. 
I  had  to  cry  because  the  young  man  was  so 
beautiful. 

Diogenes.  Oh.  [A  long  pause.]  Just  like 
a  philosopher  to  overlook  that. 

Maidservant.  And  that's  v.hy  I  was  so 
furious  at  that  silly  fool  of  a  carter  who  tried  to 
speak  like  a  poet. 

Diogenes.     I  see. 

[The  foodvendor  enters,  left  rear,  rubbing  his 
hands  and  chuckling.  He  approaches  the  wine 
seller,  icho  has  been  leaning  against  his  doorway 
half  asleep  and  shows  him  in  pantomime  how  he 
defied  and  worsted  the  three  tipsy  carters.  The 
wine  seller,  utterly  bored,  closes  his  eyes.] 

Diogenes  [looking  at  the  foodvendor  in  a  ter- 
rifying manner]  Worm!  [The  foodvendor 
trembles.]  Bring  me  a  peafowl,  artichokes  and 
carrots.  [The  foodvendor,  as  though  hypno- 
tized, gets  the  things  and  brings  them  over, 
[   69   ] 


standing  before  Diogenes  in  a  panic.  Diogenes 
rises,  helps  the  maidservant  to  her  feet,  picks 
up  her  basket  and  places  the  things  in  it.] 

Diogenes.  Here,  child.  [Hands  her  the 
basket.]  And  if  your  mistress  asks  whom  you 
were  talking  with,  say  that  the  philosopher 
greets  the  daughter  of  the  philosopher,  and  that 
he  was  sitting  at  the  feet  of  wisdom.  She  will 
understand. 

FooDVENDOR   [aside]   That's  more  than  I  do. 

Maidservant.  Yes,  father.  And  how  can  I 
thank  you  for  being  so  nice  to  me.'^ 

Diogenes  [smiling]  Well,  if  you  should  be 
dusting  and  sweeping  the  upper  chamber,  and 
if  your  heart  should  feel  like  singing,  I  shall  be 
here  to  listen  and  enjoy. 

[The  maidservant  smiles  and  runs  out  right 
through  the  archway.] 

Foodvendor.  And  who's  to  pay  for  all  this.^ 
I'm  a  virtuous  man  and     .     .     . 

Diogenes.  Out  of  your  own  mouth  you  are 
answered.  Virtue  is  its  own  reward.  [Turns 
his  back  on  the  foodvendor  who  retires  into  his 
shop,  shaking  his  head.  The  wine  seller  smiles, 
then  lies  down  on  his  bench  and  sleeps.] 

Song  [ojf] 

[    70   ] 


"MAN  HAS  A  SOUL—" 

Man  has  a  soul  must  be  wed  to  sorrow, 
Scourged  by  passion  and  faith  and  joy; 
Spurning  today  to  attain  tomorrow, 
Spending  the  blood  he  cannot  re-borrow, 
Building  on  what  he  must  first  destroy. 

Crushed,  dispirited,  broken,  faithless. 
Sunk  to  the  rock-walled  belly  of  earth 
He  shall  stand  up,  and  old  scars  na'theless 
Quit  his  body  and  leave  it  scatheless. 
Cold,  impersonal  in  rebirth. 

And  when  the  new  soars  up  and  oyer, — 
As  spring  succeeds  to  the  months  of  rain, 
With  fresh  life  starring  mead  and  cover. 
The  earth  gives  back  to  her  perfect  lover 
Passion  and  faith  and  joy  again. 

Diogenes  [lookhig  up  at  the  windoiv]  Youth, 
lyric  youth.  So  hopeful,  so  passionate,  mys- 
terious and  sad.  But  [chajiging  his  tone  and 
walking  over  to  the  magpie's  cage]  I  can  think 
until  my  brain  reels,  and  there  is  always  some- 
thing, some  simple  thing  that  I  cannot  foretell. 
I  should  have  known  why  she  was  crying,  but — 
I'll  never  learn  everything. 
[   71    ] 


The  Magpie.     Never  learn  everything. 

Diogenes  Poor  pie,  have  you  found  that  out 
in  your  bitter  prison .f*  Poor  pie.  [With  a  sud- 
den characteristic  change  to  fury.]  By  the  gods, 
the  stupid  cruelty  of  man  is  beyond  belief.  To 
keep  a  live  thing,  a  winged  thing  that  can  scale 
the  heavens  and  sport  among  the  clouds  mewed 
up  in  a  filthy  bundle  of  willow  wythes !  Here. 
[Takes  down  the  cage  and  opens  its  door.]  Go, 
fly,  be  free!  [The  magpie  makes  no  effort  to 
get  out  hut  clings  fast  to  his  perch.]  There  is 
a  symbol  of  man's  soul.  Freedom,  the  greatest 
gift  of  all,  becomes  something  to  shrink  from 
with  terror,  to  hound,  to  stamp  out  when  the 
world  gets  too  used  to  metes  and  bounds.  Oh, 
for  a  few,  a  very  few  wild  spirits  who  dare  look 
freedom  in  the  face,  to  take  her  like  lovers. 
[He  closes  the  door  of  the  cage  and  rehangs  it 
on  its  hook.]  Friend,  you  are  right,  the  time 
has  gone  for  you.  [He  walks  over  to  his  cask 
and  crawls  inside  as  the  hawker  enters  right 
front.  The  latter  is  swinging  his  empty  tray  by 
one  hand  and  is  in  great  spirits.] 

The  Hawker.  If  one  grew  lusty  on  laugh- 
ing, Hercules  would  be  a  stripling  by  compari- 
son. Gods,  what  a  quaint  animal  it  is,  our  citi- 
zenrv.  Fill  its  eves  with  the  sight  of  soldiers, 
"      [   72   ] 


its  ears  with  the  squalling  of  brass  trumpets, 
and  its  belly  with  boiled  beans.  Then  it  will 
purr  like  a  barred  tomcat  on  top  of  a  sun-lit 
wall.  [He  sees  the  wine  seller  sleeping  and  goes 
over  and  places  the  empty  tray  on  his  stomach.] 
Ho,  my  Spartan  youth,  you  have  come  home  be- 
neath your  shield!  [The  tcine  seller  opens  his 
eyes  and  heaves  the  tray  off  icith  a  slight  motion 
of  his  body.]  Or  maybe  I  should  call  you  Poly- 
phemus heaving  the  Sicilian  villages  into  the 
sea. 

The  Wixe  Seller.  If  I'd  known  your  tray 
was  empty,  I  would  have  saved  my  strength, 
jackdaw.  What,  all  the  beans  sold?  Industry, 
industry,  what  a  jewel  thou  art. 

The  Hawker.  Industry  nothing.  They 
rushed  at  me  with  money  in  their  hands  and  had 
the  whole  stock  off  my  tray  and  bulging  their 
fat  cheeks  before  you  could  empty  a  cup  of  wine. 
Which  reminds  me,  I've  earned  a  slight  libation 
to  the  fair  god  Bacchus.  [The  ivine  seller 
starts  to  rise.]  No,  friend,  don't  trouble  your- 
self. I  can  get  it;  and  shall  I  draw  for  two? 
[The  icine  seller  nods.]  Good.  [The  haivher 
goes  into  the  shop  and  returns  with  two  cups  of 
wine.]  Drink,  my  golden  tapster,  my  little 
terra-cotta  Ganymede!  [The  wine  seller  sits 
[    73    ] 


up  and  they  drink.  The  hawker  throws  back 
his  head.]  How  it  glads  the  gullet.  I  like  to 
stretch  m}^  neck  and  make  flat  the  throat;  then 
I  can  feel  it  all  the  way  down. 

The  Wine  Seller.  Good  wine.  And  there 
are  madmen  who  say  that  it  is  wicked  to  drink. 
But  I  won't  call  them  men.  Stupid  cows ; 
camels.  [He  tosses  the  empty  cup  through  the 
door.]  Great  Olympus^  as  if  fools  and  knaves 
couldn't  spoil  the  finest  things  in  this  world. 
It's  all  in  the  way  you  take  life.  There's  no 
harm  in  the  good  grape,  it's  in  the    .     .     . 

The  Hawker.  I  know.  But  don't  you  re- 
member how  we  had  to  call  for  the  barber- 
surgeon,  the  little  Esculapius,  and  he  put  a  round 
dozen  of  leeches  on  your  neck  to  break  the  fit 
the  last  time  you  got  on  that  subject? 

[Two  men  enter  right.  They  are  both  young, 
in  the  early  twenties,  and  have  the  physique  and 
clear  bronzed  skiji  of  people  who  spend  their 
lives  in  the  open.  They  are  dressed  in  long 
woolen  cloaks  which  fall  in  great  simple  folds 
from  shoulder  to  heel,  so  that  it  is  impossible  to 
tell  their  rank,  except  that  they  follow  the  pro- 
fession of  arms.  The  taller  is  dark-haired  and 
rather  slight  in  build,  though  powerful.  The 
other  arrests  attention  immediately,  the  atten- 
[    74   ] 


tion  first  being  drazm  to  the  superb  set  of  the 
round  head  on  the  great  neck,  ■which  rises  like 
a  Doric  column  from  the  grey  cloak.  His  hair 
is  red-gold  and  curls  in  archaic  rings  all  over  his 
head  and  around  the  small,  beautifully  set  ears. 
His  eyes,  intensely  blue,  have  the  rapt,  in- 
scrutable look  of  the  great  idealist  or  great 
egoist.  The  way  he  handles  his  body  shows  per- 
fect coordination  and  his  voice,  even  when 
pitched  in  a  whisper,  has  the  flexibility  and 
power  of  an  organ.  His  bearing  is  that  of  a 
demi-god.  There  are  blue  circles  under  the  eyes 
of  both  and  a  slight  pallor  shoiving  through  the 
tan.] 

Dark  Soldier  [moving  tozcard  the  archicay] 
Where  can  he  have  taken  himself  off  to?  He's 
as  elusive  as  a  squadron  of  Parthian  horse. 
And  it's  like  his  pleasant  habit  of  charging  out 
of  the  theatre  when  the  crowd  begins  arriving, 
to  slip  out  to  this  suburb  on  the  day  of  days. 

Fair  Soldier.  If  he  was  trying  to  pique  my 
interest  he  could  not  have  adopted  a  better  shift. 
But  his  strength  is  that  he  does  not  care. 

Dark  Soldier.      Sire^  I  am  not  sure  of  that. 
It  is  one  thing  to  scorn  the  ordinary  pomps  and 
powers  of  life  and  another  to  be  indifferent  to 
[   75   ] 


world  power.  Lives  there  a  man  whose  soul  can 
put  aside  the  offers  of  the  master  of  the  world? 

Alexander.  I  do  not  know,  friend,  but 
[catching  sight  of  the  cask]  I  think  we  have  run 
the  lion  to  his  lair. 

Dark  Soldier.  Yes,  surely.  That's  his  new 
house.  They  say  that  when  that  gross  array 
contractor,  grown  proud  of  his  sudden  riches, 
v\'as  boasting  of  his  marvelous  morals,  Diogenes 
answered  that  the  god  Bacchus  had  dj^ed  the 
walls  of  his  bedchamber  with  Tyrian  purple. 

[They  advance  toicard  the  cash  and  regard 
the  sleeping  philosopher.  The  icine  seller  and 
the  hawker  sit  up  straight  on  the  bench.  The 
latter  shows  rising  excitement,  which  he  com- 
municates to  his  huge  companion  by  indicating 
in  dumb  shoio  that  the  newcomer  is  Alexander. 
The  foodvendor  appears,  eyeing  the  two  cloaked 
-figures,  appraising  them  as  possible  customers; 
starts  forward,  thinks  better  of  it,  and  remains 
half  in  his  shop  with  his  neck  craned  forzcard.] 

Alexander.  What  a  daunting  thing  is  sleep. 
How  that  mimic  death  does  take  the  beholder  by 
the  throat,  and  give  him  pause.  A  great  purge 
for  pride. 

[The  maidservant  comes  out  of  the  arched 
doorway,  right,  and  begins  to  sprinkle  the 
[   76    ] 


ground   with    ivater  from   an   earthenicare   jar, 
dipping  it  out  with  her  hand.] 

Maidservant.  Down,  dust !  Shall  I  be  al- 
ways sweeping  and  driving  you  outside  to  the 
kitchen-midden,  and  you  flying  in  gaily  by  the 
window  again .^      [Sings] 

The  earth  gives  back  to  her  perfect  lover 

Passion  and  faith  and  joy  again. 

[At  the  sound  of  the  singing,  Alexander 
glances  toward  her,  smiling,  and  she  sees  him 
for  the  first  time.  Her  face  goes  white,  she  sets 
down  the  jar  very  gently  and  leans  against  the 
arch  as  though  faint.     In  a  whisper  to  herself] 

Maidservant.     My  beautiful  one  ! 

[Three  or  four  people  enter  left  rear,  among 
them  one  of  the  carters.  Two  women  enter 
right  front  and  all  stand  as  though  sensing 
something  great  about  to  happen.] 

Dark  Soldier.     Diogenes. 

Diogenes  [waking  and  sitting  up  in  his  cask, 
with  a  look  of  annoyance]  Who  are  you,  and 
what  do  you  mean  by  disturbing  me  ? 

Alexander  [slipping  his  cloak  from  his 
shoulders  with  the  born  actor's  sure  instinct  for 
the  dramatic,  so  that  it  slides  to  the  ground, 
leaving  him  superb  in  his  golden  armor,  over  a 
vermilion  tunic]  The  son  of  Philip. 
[   77   ] 


Dark  Soldier.     Alexander  the  Great! 

All  [except  the  maidservant,  in  varying 
tones  of  wonder,  awe  and  admiration^  Alexan- 
der the  Great ! 

Diogenes.  Yes.  And  I  the  son  of  Icesias 
the  swindler. 

Alexander  [calling  on  all  his  art  to  draw 
some  response  from  the  philosopher^  Diogenes, 
I  greet  you.  Though  conqueror  of  the  world, 
with  armies  at  my  back  whose  mastery  is  such 
that  none  has  ever  seen  the  like,  I  stand  before 
you  as  man  to  man,  as  equal,  and  only  ask: 
what,  from  my  power,  can  I  do  for  you.^ 

[Carried  away  hy  his  own  half -unconscious 
pentameters,  he  steps  forward  and  casts  a 
shadow  on  the  reclining  figure.  The  dark 
soldier  stoops  and  picks  up  the  cloak.  Diogenes 
looks  at  the  resplendent  figure  for  several 
moments,  apparently  quite  unmoved.  The  crowd 
stands  breathless  with  tensio7i.^ 

Diogenes  [quietly^  You  can  stand  out  of  the 
sunshine. 

[Alexander  does  not  take  in  the  import  of  the 
answer  for  a  few  seconds,  and,  puzzled,  steps 
backward  out  of  the  light.  Slowly  his  face 
darkens  as  the  full  quality  of  the  rebuff  sinks 
into  his  brain.  The  dark  soldier  stands  like  a 
[   78    ] 


statue,  with  Alexander's  cloak  over  his  left  arm 
and  his  right  hand  half  drawing  his  sword  from 
under  his  cloak.  Alexander's  fury  reaches  a 
climax  and  his  face  passes  into  an  expression  of 
deep  thought,  touched  with  sadness.  He  bows 
silently  to  Diogenes,  then  turns  to  the  dark 
soldier,  takes  the  cloak  and  xvraps  it  around 
himself  .\ 

Alexander  [to  the  dark  soldier,  gently^  And 
I  was  weeping  for  new  worlds  to  conquer !  [£f e 
walks  sloivly  front,  his  head  bowed,  and  then 
turning  to  his  left  with  military  precision,  goes 
out  right  front,  followed  by  the  dark  soldier.^ 

[The  whole  crowd  has  stood  as  though  turned 
to  stone  and  remain  so  for  a  minute  or  two. 
Then  the  maidservant,  coming  to  life,  darts  from 
the  arch  and  stands  before  Diogenes.] 

Maidservant  [with  passion,  stamping  her 
foot]  YOU  HORRID  OLD  MAN! 

CURTAIN 


[   79   ] 


YA  nso 


459353 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CAUFORNIA  LIBRARY 


DRV      POINTS 

18S7-W20 

BY 

HENRY  MARTYN  HOYT 


